


Hit or Miss

by kagme



Series: Every reality with you [1]
Category: Twosetviolin, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Character Death, Childhood Friends, Hitman!Eddy, Just Pain really, M/M, Mafia AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:42:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24771832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kagme/pseuds/kagme
Summary: There are only two options in his line of work.Either you hit, and you get out of it alive, or you miss and it’s over.He hasn’t faltered since he was nineteen. Humming the Tchaikovsky violin concerto every time he could feel his hands shaking - the only thing he wants to keep from his past life.But this time, this time he sees the face of the man he wanted to travel the world and play music with and he falters.
Relationships: Eddy Chen & Brett Yang, Eddy Chen/Brett Yang
Series: Every reality with you [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2081190
Comments: 23
Kudos: 65





	Hit or Miss

**Author's Note:**

> Hey. So. Yeah.
> 
> I had this idea yesterday in the shower so I typed it in one go.
> 
> Apparently my brain decided ‘An Essay about Why Best Friends are the Very Best’ is way too fluffy and told me I needed to write some pain to compensate. So if you want to angst hard, welcome to my one shot.
> 
> This is not beta read though.

**Hit or Miss**

(He doesn’t find out, because he never pulls the trigger)

The two guards fall on the floor, the smell of gunpowder, oil and blood fill the air. One would have thought that an event such as this would have better security, but they are either cocky, or honestly don’t think anyone would try to sneak in by the parking.

The hitman decides to be extra careful, in case this is a trap and they are expecting him. So when he presses the lift’s button, he doesn’t put the gun back into the holster strapped on the small of his back just in case, he busies himself by checking the silencer is still on and that he has enough ammunition - he doesn’t need to, but the gestures are comforting. Nothing happens, though, the doors open with a _ting_ , and the man’s eyes are only met with the metallic glint of the walls, and his own reflection on the mirror. 

He is quite good looking today, but that’s all part of the profession. The sharp cut of the suit is making his legs even longer, but the muscles in his arms and chest are hidden by the dress shirt and slick jacket. The glasses he has taken to wear recently have been switched with contact lenses, and there is nothing to hide the sparkle in his dark eyes. He gives himself a smirk and steps into the elevator, still on high alert.

“Hey,” he murmurs into the mic hidden on his bow tie. “I’m in. But this was too easy, something might be wrong.”

The voice that comes directly in his ears sounds slightly exasperated despite its softness.

“Or, sometimes, when you’ve spent months planning something, it actually goes according to plan. Stop being so paranoid.”

“I only made it to thirty because I’m paranoid, T-9,” he quips back. 

He would love to believe her, but the scars littering his body are a testimony that nothing _ever_ goes according to plan. Not even his life.

The lips on the mirror make a downturn and the man squashes that thought before it makes him lose focus, his hand gets a better grip on the gun. The only time he allows himself to ponder on the path his life took is late into the night, when he can’t find sleep and turns over and over in his bedsheets. When he gives up and goes to look at the stars, letting the full weight of regret settle into his chest.

  
  


> _When the man was a boy - before everything went wrong - he had one dream._
> 
> _He wanted to tour the world with his best friend and play music everywhere._
> 
> _Before his hands learned the weight of guns, they were familiar with the one of the bow. Before lessons on infiltration and underworld politics, he had learned music theory and instrument practice. Before his life revolved around ending the one of others, it had all been about his violin and another boy._
> 
> _His path had been both clear cut and misty. He would get the best he could be at his instrument, and play, play, play until his fingers fell off, until his life became music._
> 
> _He didn’t think he was asking too much at the time, he could have lived with a sleeping bag, his violin and his best friend at his side._

The doors open, two girls and a guy who look like security get into the lift. His heartbeat goes staccato, and the gun hidden under the back of his suit jacket is heavy. His hand twitches. Their voices are loud, and they don’t make any gesture to arrest him, just say ‘ _Hi_ ’ and ignore him, but it could be part of a trap. 

“ _Relax,_ ” Toni’s voice is calm and grounding through the com device in his ear. “This is just the regular shift of security for the party. They’re probably not on to you. From what I can see on the parking camera, nobody noticed the bodies yet.”

He knows. Those three guards are joking with each other and barely sparing him a glance. He knows they don’t realize what he’s here for, but he can’t help being on his guards anyway. His body language is relaxed, but his right hand behind his back is tense, fingers curled around the cross of his glock. The number displayed by the screen on his left goes up and up and up. It reaches twenty-seven. The group comes out.

They are almost out of the lift when the second girl, the youngest of the three, turns around and stares at the hitman. The gun is still hidden behind his back, but out of the holster now, his hand firm around it, ready to draw.

“Have a good evening sir, sorry for the noise,” the girl only apologizes.

“It’s okay, no worries,” he answers with a smile not betraying how close he is to shooting the three of them.

Then they walk down the corridor, the metallic doors close behind them, and only when the lift starts back its ascension toward the 40th floor can he start to relax.

“See? I told you they weren’t on to you. I’m your partner, you need to trust me a little bit, Tchaik.”

Like every time he hears the code name, he welcomes the calmness it gives him, the music he can still hear, the slight pain in his chest that reminds him he is human.

> _He was twenty when he gained his nickname, it had been five years already, since he joined the Organization, since he had had to give up on everything. But some part of him would still unconsciously cling to bits he was supposed to have left behind._
> 
> _His hand would get shaky sometimes, when he got nervous - shaky hands and a sniper weren’t a good mix. So he had to learn tricks to relax, to empty his mind._
> 
> _“What is that you’re humming under your breath all the time? I’ve never heard of anybody singing when they kill people.”_
> 
> _He only shrugged and gave the name of the piece - Tchaikovsky violin concerto, calms me down - but didn’t mention who it was associated with. Nobody in this fucking grim world needed to know he still had one thing he cared about._

The lift makes a last _ting_ and the doors open on floor 40. The full blast of the event hits him without warning.

Champagne cups clinking, polite laughter floating, vapid discussions, music - music in the background. Since life is a bitch, it is the fucking Sibelius violin concerto, but arranged because the venue probably couldn’t afford to fit a whole orchestra inside. Doesn’t matter, the music is still hauntingly beautiful. At least his kill will be made on his favorite music tonight.

He goes up to the front desk, and gives the name and ID card of the man whose identity the Organization has stolen to get him inside this charity event. The steward only nods and gestures for him to go on. 

Never before has an operation been that smooth. Everything goes perfectly according to plan, and it scares him. He mingles, pretends to be someone else, chitchats with important people as if he belongs, and bids his time.

He wasn’t given a lot of details - as usual, in case he’s captured and can’t swallow the poison pill hidden behind his teeth - so things are achingly simple for him from now on. The target will come into the room in a few minutes by the door behind the musicians to make a speech - and that speech cannot be made, the Organization decided. So when Toni gives him the signal, he is to stand there, and shoot the first person to come out of that door. Or the second if the first one is part of security. If he’s fast enough, nobody will have the time to see him before he is already out by that door, and down the service stairs. 

He looks longingly at the musicians, and tries to pretend he’s only mapping out the place in case plan B or C needs to be activated. He actively doesn’t think - _could have been me up there._

> _Life was a hazardous thing, and when his parents died, and he found himself under the shady surveillance of his uncle, he already thought nothing could possibly be worse._
> 
> _Then his uncle disappeared and a group of terrifying men armed to the teeth barged into the dirty appartement and asked for money he didn’t have._
> 
> _They told him he had a choice, but he felt the choice had been taken away from him a long time ago. He was fifteen, and had never seen a gun in his life before, so whatever the men said to him afterward, he only nodded, and without knowing it signed his freedom away._
> 
> _He had had one week to cut his ties with everyone he knew, they told him. To gather his stuff and wait for them at an address. Then he would start on repaying his debt._
> 
> _Cutting his ties, It’s going to be easy, he thought. He had no family left, his friends at school would forget him soon enough - maybe his violin teacher would wonder._
> 
> _The only thing he refused to ponder on was his best friend. He had an inkling that if he saw him, he would break. Because he was the incarnation of everything he had ever wanted, and it would just make him all that more conscientious that he was leaving things behind: freedom, music, travel, laughter and love._

It doesn’t matter now. None of those daydreams matter. Once you are part of them, the Organization takes care of its members. Of the family, as they call it. He built himself around a new identity, and the only thing he still carries from his past life is the humming of the Tchaik as he pulls the trigger, and regrets deep into the stars. 

Toni keeps going over the plan in the com device, and he almost wants to roll his eyes. Everything that could have gone wrong is behind him now, all that is left is the easy part. A waiter offers him champagne, and he subtly slides it on a table untouched when nobody is watching.

“2 min, Tchaik. Go to your post. He’s coming alone, no security. Shoot the first person coming out of that door and make a run for it.” Toni informs him.

The hitman excuses himself out of a discussion with a politician’s wife who is probably hitting on him, and pretends to want a better look at the musicians. He circles them until he is mostly out of sight. This is perfect, the vibration of the contrabass will cover what little noise the silencer cannot muffle.

He stands by that door, his hand behind his back on the cross of his glock. 

“Any second now.”

He hears footsteps, the doorknob turns, and his gun is out.

But then, the door opens and he sees that face. 

For the first time since he was nineteen, he falters.

> _“D’you think we’ll become soloists one day?”_
> 
> _Their nine and eight years old selves were sitting on the floor, violins on their laps, taking a break from a stupidly hard duet they had challenged each other on._
> 
> _“I think so, yeah!” his best friend answered with all the confidence he usually had. “Even if we don’t though, we’ll still travel the world, yeah? And find a way to play everywhere. You’ll come with me.”_
> 
> _It wasn’t a question. There was never a doubt, but he still answered._
> 
> _“Of course I’ll come with you.”_
> 
> _“Oh, you know? My aunt got married! They did the wedding in Taiwan though, so I couldn’t go because we had school that day. When I marry a beautiful girl when I’m a grown up, you have to play for my wedding.”_
> 
> _“Then you have to play for mine too, it’s not fair otherwise!”_
> 
> _His friend nodded._
> 
> _“But wait,” the boy suddenly realized. “How will we travel if we have wives?”_
> 
> _His best friend thought about it long and hard, furrowing his eyebrow, then shrugged and picked up his violin again._
> 
> _“It’s okay, we’ll just leave them together so they don’t get lonely, and then the both of us can go back to traveling and playing the violin.”_
> 
> _“You’re talking like wives are pets, you’re so mean!”_
> 
> _They laughed and gave up on the stupidly hard piece, keeping it for later. They had all the time in the world for duets, they thought._

What follows is a rubato. Slight improvisation on a score that is already written, where all they can do is stall for some time, suspend a note, but that means something else will have to be rushed.

His best friend mouths his name in wonder, uncaring of the weapon pointed to his forehead. There are a few halted seconds during which nobody reacts. And it is just Brett and Eddy. With years, a gun and the Sibelius violin concerto in between them.

Then time catches up and everything is happening at once, so quickly the hitman would never have had the time to process all of them if the moment before a catastrophe didn’t have this uncanny power of slowing down the world. His hand starts shaking.

“Why didn’t you tell- Why didn’t you tell me it was him?” He whispers into the mic, his voice is broken.

The concerto stops playing.

“You have to shoot. You have to shoot now, Tchaik, please!” Toni’s words in his ear are urgent and pleading, but he barely hears them.

Because Brett is speaking at the same time.

“Eddy,” he says, almost with reverence. “Eddy,” he repeats again, like the name is a mantra. “I’ve looked for you everywhere.”

His best friend steps toward him, extends his hand, as if to touch the hitman in front of him. All he notices is the callus on the tip of those fingers. He still plays the violin then. In the background, security finally notices something is amiss. There are shouts, chaos in the corner of his eyes. He doesn’t hear anything anymore, everyone is yelling at the same time. The guards behind him, his partner in the com device, his own mind.

Brett is so close now, that even if the hitman was to suddenly turn blind, he wouldn’t miss this shot. He doesn’t have braces anymore, grew up a bit, changed his glasses. But go pass that and he is exactly the boy he wanted to play and travel with, never changed from the sixteen years old best friend he left behind.

“Tchaik. Shoot. Or you die.” Toni’s voice is clear this time.

> _The banging on his door had been going on for what seemed like hours now. The teenager knew he would have to open it at one point. Each time the doorknob rattled, his heart squeezed a little more._
> 
> _Brett was calling his name at first - Eddy, Eddy, please open the fucking door! You have to talk to me - but then his voice started going hoarse, and eventually he was just mechanically hitting the door. He wanted to tell him to stop, that he would hurt his fingers, but if he opened his mouth, he would probably cry, so he chose not to._
> 
> _Then everything was ready. A duffel bag stuffed with what little he wanted to keep. And his violin case._
> 
> _He opened the door._
> 
>   
>    
>    
> 
> 
> _On the other side, his best friend’s eyes were surprised and red-rimmed. His hand was still in the air, ready to bang on the wood again. There were small splinters in his skin already, and Eddy felt angry, but Brett was charging on, fury taking over shock on his face._
> 
> _“Dude, what the fuck! I’ve been calling you for days, weeks even! I already told you you could come live with me. I know you’re in pain but staying holed up isn’t going to-”_
> 
> _Then Brett noticed the empty place behind his best friend back, the bag on his shoulder. His voice went very small._
> 
> _“Where are you going?“_
> 
> _Eddy shrugged. Brett’s voice was shaking now._
> 
> _“When are you coming back?“_
> 
> _He lowered his eyes. Tried to find the words. There were none, just his articulations whitening around the black handle of his case._
> 
> _“I’m not,” he finally rasped. Then he pushed his violin into his best friend’s arms. It would be in better hands that way. Brett shook his head, but still held unto the case by reflex._
> 
> _“I don’t want it. You promised if I got married- You can’t play at my wedding if you don’t have a violin.”_
> 
> _“I’m not- I’m never going to be playing at your wedding. Find someone else.”_
> 
> _“I’m never going to get married then! What’s the point if you’re not here? I love you!”_
> 
> _Just before he had opened that door, Eddy had promised himself he wouldn’t cry. His voice shattered at the same time as his heart._
> 
> _“This isn’t- This isn’t the point, Brett! I don’t have a choice. Why are you saying this now? Stop making it harder! I- You-” His throat clogged and he stopped speaking because he couldn’t. It was time to stop this._
> 
> _So he pushed his best friend away. He looked so soft cradling Eddy’s violin case, in that pink hoodie, with his hair a bit too long and his braces, so far from the reality of Eddy’s world. He stared at him one last time, keeping this last image engraved on his retina, storing it with memories of laughter and violin playing. Then he turned his back and went down the stairs, running away, not giving another look behind, not even when his best friend’s voice cracked as he yelled._
> 
> _“Why are you leaving? We were supposed to travel the world together!”_
> 
> _He didn’t answer._

He knows this is the time. He has to do it before being taken down.

Now.

His target is blurring, and he realizes he is crying.

Brett keeps looking at him like they aren’t surrounded by hundreds of persons, like his former best friend isn’t pointing a gun to his face.

He knows he won’t make it. Falters a second too long.

His childhood friend opens his mouth, screams.

“ _No!”_

But it is too late. The bullets pierce through him.

He doesn’t feel the pain at once. He just sees this face, the face of the only person he hasn’t lost yet. The softness in his eyes never disappeared, even now when they are drowned in tears and anguish.

“You can’t do this. You can’t... I just found you. You can’t leave. I still- I still have your violin, I have to give it back to you. I- please...”

There are hands in his hair, and as he feels his blood seeping out of him, he knows he will never regret not pulling the trigger.

“Why are you leaving? We were supposed to travel the world together... _”_ The statement is so wrecked, voice cracking over every word, that Eddy can barely piece it together.

He hums a broken version of the Tchaikovsky violin concerto, coughs some blood, but he never manages to answer this time either.

**Author's Note:**

> You made it, yeah. 
> 
> I have no idea how this will be received, but I would gladly take into account what the fandom thinks about this kind of writing. So please don’t hesitate to tell me how it was :)
> 
> Ok. I promise I’m going back to writing fluff now.


End file.
